Patronus
by Crimson Sun
Summary: Tseng, Rufus, and a tricky spell. Shonen-ai one-shot set in Potterverse.


**Patronus**

"Concentrate," Tseng repeats, "on a single happy thought."

Rufus lets the scepticism on his face speak for itself, wand gripped like a throwing knife at his side. Thirteen years of careful education raised him into subtlety, gave him a spectrum of emotions too continuous for labels. _Happiness_ is not pure when marked by anticipation of consequences, and murky memories of brief elation are not strong enough to power this charm.

He imagines _Expecto Patronum_ must come easier, for simpletons.

Yet Tseng - teacher, spellmaster, the man who is clearly no fool - stands casually a way away, silver eagle circling lazily above him and casting strange shadows on familiar Asian features. What nature of recollections is the Chinese summoning, to give his Patronus form? Rufus wonders - indeed, _obsesses_ at times over similar details - but Tseng remains impenetrable.

"Again," the impenetrable one commands. A nearby antique chest quivers as Rufus swallows, steadies his wand against the looming soulless projection as it consumes the room. _Happy thought_. Vague images of a mother backlit by sun swims to mind, wavers in the Dementor's hollow face and dissolves into a bottomless grave. _Expecto Patronum _- fine, grey, useless mist. The Ministry's brightest office, then - the papers proclaiming Rufus Shinra's rise to power - but those red and gold banners catch fire and fall, disappearing under the shoes of a million angry citizens raising their fists to his door.

The eagle swoops, and Rufus staggers to breathe. The Boggart is re-confined. Tseng's face could be carved from glass, for all the variance it shows.

"I need more instruction," the blond hisses, humiliated.

"You need clarity," Tseng replies, bored. "Block out extraneous stimuli and _dictate_ what is presented to your senses."

"Are you telling me," Rufus grits his teeth, "to _ignore_ the fifty-foot demon trying to suck out my soul?"

"I'm telling you," Tseng sighs, "to control your mind. Find a moment of happiness, some strong yearning. Anything at all-" his monotone grates against the dramatic words "-that strengthens your will to live."

Rufus grimaces at the poorly concealed accusation. Control. How effortless it is for the seemingly ageless Auror with stiff robes and stifled expressions. Briefly, he entertains the thought of pulling out Tseng's neat plait so it comes undone in a mess of waves over the man's broad shoulders, and feels suddenly encouraged.

"Again," Tseng says. The chest lid unlatches; Rufus raises his wand and sees himself addressing the media, inauguration speech ringing over a sea of upturned, expectant faces. The Dementor pauses, considering, then continues to advance. The crowd jeers and swarms closer, crying _nepotism_ and _corruption_, sending waves of broken spells over his crumbling empire. _Expecto Patronum_ - as frail as fog.

"Careful," his guard warns levelly, in and out of Rufus' confused imagination. The heir's eyes narrow, frustration temporarily overriding fear, livid at Tseng's aggravating calm. He thinks, often, that this is an enchanted doll sent to his service - must be - for only a creature without a soul is without fear, and the Boggart assumes no shape around Tseng. How Rufus wishes at times to take away the Asian's wand, deprive the spellmaster of his intuitive magic, and see all the defences around this invincible man come _crashing down_.

The eagle swoops, and Rufus is angry with the floor beneath his palms and knees.

"You don't believe in those thoughts you're using," Tseng comments. "Or, they are too vague. Forced."

"I know _exactly_ what makes me happy," Rufus all but growls, master of no one if not himself. Yet.

"I'm sure," Tseng shrugs. "But if you will - try some more personal themes. It works for me."

Rufus twitches. "Personal themes, like what?"

"It wouldn't help you to know mine," comes the sly and ever-enigmatic answer, "Though I think you've done enough for today."

"No," Rufus protests after a moment, rising to his feet with some kindling inspiration, "One more time."

The Dementor takes form, but now Rufus trains his gaze and thoughts on _Tseng_ instead. _Personal_ is synonymous with _private_, though when the time comes, the new Minister will tolerate no secrets. He'll have this Chinese puppet inverted, inner shadows dissipating on the surface of naked skin. Tseng will kneel unclothed with bound wrists on Shinra's crimson carpet, wand sitting uselessly between his thighs. Rufus, grown into power, shall approach in robes of white, reaching out gentle fingers to tangle within the Auror's untied hair, pulling back so brown eyes meet blue.

_Expecto Patronum_ - a silver shield; the Dementor jerks back, apparently surprised.

"That's it," Rufus hears Tseng's voice as if from a great distance.

While in his mind Tseng's lips part mildly under his thumb, obedient and despairing, muttering words that are inconsequential in content, meaningful only in their secretive nature. Tseng, exposed, helpless, and Rufus the master of _small favours_, so merciful, so capable, this Minister guiding the mouth of his previous guard closer to the white cloth at his hips, pushing Tseng's face into tented fabric. Who is in control now, aloof and impeccable, and who is the one licking at the edges of a dominance he doesn't possess? Tseng has the most exquisite tongue, practiced after years of wrapping around long and difficult spells, though now too occupied to issue another ill-hidden insult-

"_Expecto Patronum_!" Rufus stumbles backward, in time to see a mess of silver spring from his wand. The Dementor flinches at the snarling head of a panther, which wavers out of focus, inadequately fuelled by prepubescent dreams. A few steps away, Tseng barely raises his hand, and the lid snaps shut again. Eagle, panther, and Boggart all disappear, leaving behind man, boy, and the lingering discomfort of teenage embarrassment.

"Ah," Tseng smiles, without warmth, but something resembling smugness. "_That_ seems to have done the trick. Dare I ask what thought you finally settled on?"

"None of your business," Rufus snaps, feeling asphyxiated in his moment of victory, cheeks flushed and seeking escape. "Same time tomorrow, Tseng." Unnecessarily, to end this on _his_ terms as he walks out the door.

It is not until some time after the lesson that Rufus remembers Tseng's status as an _excellent_ Legilimens.


End file.
